


twenty-one grams

by hearthouses



Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Anal Sex, Canon Gay Character, Cuddling & Snuggling, Fix-It, Grief/Mourning, Happy Ending, Journey into the Underworld, M/M, Necrophilia, Post-IT Chapter Two (2019), Resurrection, Riding, Ritual Public Sex, The Kissing Bridge (IT), Vague OT6 Vibes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-08
Updated: 2019-11-08
Packaged: 2021-01-14 23:54:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,743
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21244085
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hearthouses/pseuds/hearthouses
Summary: After Eddie dies, Richie can't let go.(OR: The One Where Richie Fucks Eddie Back To life.)





	twenty-one grams

**Author's Note:**

  * For [scorpiod](https://archiveofourown.org/users/scorpiod/gifts).

> I will admit that _most_ of the details about Eddie's corpse and the decomposition thereof are wildly inaccurate, as I know way too much about the decomposition of a body for someone who isn't in the death industry, so I am aware most of this would not be feasible without a lot more grotesque things happening. I am relying on a certain level of suspension of disbelief and running on the idea that the weird magic of Derry is helping this along. 
> 
> Many thanks to my beta, D! I really hope you enjoy this, scorpiod, and are having a great Halloween!

_ Dead bodies are meant to weigh more _ , Richie thinks—_aren’t they? _Deadweight, an empty carcass of meat and bones and oozing fluids, limp and lifeless. But Eddie is light in his arms, like everything that made him up had been whittled down and withered, gone when old Pennywise finally snuffed the light out of him. 

Eddie is small in his arms, bundled up in his jacket and any outerwear the other Losers could spare, a makeshift shroud of tied together flannels and hoodies. Ben had offered to take him and still hovers at Richie’s side, hands opening and clenching, ready to catch Eddie when Richie’s arms finally give out. He laughs under his breath, a manic sort of giggle that makes his grip tighten on Eddie’s corpse. Richie hefts him up in his arms, cradling him bridal-style, tucked against his chest like a baby. 

_ Twenty-one grams_. He remembers Eddie telling him once that the soul weighed twenty-one grams and everyone lost twenty-one grams at the time of death, a fact tangled up in one of his long rambling info dumps that Richie could hardly keep up with, but liked the sound of his voice going on a tear about the topic that caught his fancy that month. 

Maybe Eddie’s soul was heavier, makes sense that it would be. Eddie was always too much for the size of him, his energy spilling out all over. 

It was too early in the morning for anyone to be about, not that Richie cared, but it’s nice not to be gawked at as they walk down Main Street in Derry toward the inn. No one speaks. Richie tries to focus on the sound of their feet against the pavement and the birdsong that trills on the wind. Stan would be able to tell them which birds were talking to them, if Stan were alive. Mike and Bill flank his left side while Bev and Ben take his right, walking alongside him, but boxing him in, ready to grab him if he takes off running, if he thinks of doing something stupid. 

They’re already down to five, Richie supposes they didn’t want to see that number go down to four. 

Richie tries not to blame them. 

  
  
  
  


The inn was still empty when they file through the door, Bill holding it open until everyone is inside. Richie hears the click of a lock and Richie feels the urge to make a smart comment burn on his tongue, about the presumptuousness of the act, but his heart’s not in it. The place could be run by ghosts and Richie still wouldn’t have it in him to make a joke. 

Richie lets go of Eddie when he moves into the parlor and lays him out across the sofa, folding his hands on his chest. Rigor mortis has started to settle in, Eddie’s hands stiffer, his limbs less floppy; Richie pauses to squeeze his hands, massaging the cool flesh, like it might have any effect. He pictures throwing himself across his chest, burying his face in the gaping hole and wailing dramatically—he thinks he’s earned the right, but he chooses to get to his feet and lift Eddie’s head, sliding himself onto the cushion of the sofa, letting Eddie’s head loll on his thigh, Richie’s fingers finding the strands of his head, stroking it back against Eddie’s head. 

He feels four sets of eyes on him, hears the creak of floorboards as Bill paces around the room. Bev chooses to settle on the floor by the sofa, Ben beside him, her limpid wet eyes deceivingly soft, but her gaze stares at him like a knife, sharp and direct, carving her way inside his head—maybe she can, literally, all that Deadlights fuckery and shit, his head is all twisted up the same way now. 

Richie isn’t sure how long they stay like that—minutes, hours, days, it all blurs together in the rising noise at the back of his head, the flashing images of what the Deadlights had given him, had shown him, taunting him now until it all goes silent, mind black. 

He lifts his head and his gaze lands on Mike, locking eyes with him through the cracks in his glasses, part of the room red from where Eddie’s blood had splattered. 

“So, Mikey,” he starts, watching the way Mike’s eyes light up with recognition, even as his mouth twists downward, like he knows what Richie is going to say before he lets the cat out of the bag. “Do you—”

“Richie,” Bill’s voice cuts him off, runs him through with his firm tone, not a single stutter—still thinking he’s their fearless leader, even after everything, thinking he can tell Richie what to do. “Don’t.” 

Richie flips him off, lifting his hand without looking at him. “I wasn’t talking to you, Bill. I was asking _ Mike _a question.” 

He can almost feel the sigh that shudders out of Bill, watching the way he scrubs his hand down his face, a nervous trembling energy rolling off him and filling the room. Bill doesn’t try to interrupt him again. 

“Mike,” Richie starts again, his fingertips tracing the smooth line of Eddie’s brow. “In all your research on how to kill our dearly departed Pennywise, have you ever come across something that could fucking fix this?” 

There’s a long pause, Richie and Mike looking across the room at each other as the rest of them look between—Richie wasn’t sure what he expected Mike to say, but this was Derry, all the shit that happened here, there must be something. 

“Come on, man,” he says, feeling his hands start to shake and the tears start to well over. “I’ll do anything, I’ll _ Sleeping Beauty _ this shit, I’ll perform necromany, black magic, I’ll even believe in fucking fairies if that is what it takes, but you can’t tell me there is nothing we can do because I call bullshit.” 

Mike stands up and crosses the floor between them, his hand feels heavy when it lands on his shoulder as Mike kneels, keeping their eyes level. “There’s something we can try—I’m not making promises that it will work, so don’t go thinking that I know it will work, but Richie—it’s not pleasant, so are you sure you want to do this?” 

“Did you not listen to my little speech there, Mikey? I’ll do whatever you say we need to do to get him back, if there’s even a chance to get him back.” 

Mike makes a noise at the back of his throat and his eyes go wet, shining as the too bright sun drifts through the windows. Bev gasps out, her hands landing on his knee, her grip squeezing as she whispers, _ Richie, honey, _like they’re still down in the cistern, like they never left. 

“I need to go get a few things,” Mike says, patting Richie’s shoulder as he pulls himself to full height, making Richie crane his neck to look at him; Mike glances around the room at Bill, then Bev and Ben. “Make sure he doesn’t do anything stupid without my supervision.” 

Then he strides from the parlor and out the door, Bill following him so he can lock the door behind Mike. 

  
  
  
  


Ben and Beverly help Richie take Eddie upstairs while Bill stays downstairs, cleaning up the messes they’ve left, righting furniture and arranging pillows—something useful, busy work; Richie hates how glad he is to have him out of the way. They take Eddie to his room and lay him out on the bed. 

“Let’s get him cleaned up,” Richie says, his voice low, fighting past the lump growing in his throat and starting to remove his shoes as Bev and Ben start to tug at the tangled chain of sweaters and jackets, to unfurl him. “He’d hate being so dirty.” 

Ben nods, undoing a knotted sleeve with wet eyes, sniffling. 

“If you’re going to put him in water, we should,” Bev starts, getting choked up for a moment, swallowing past the sob working out of her throat. “We should make sure all his wounds are closed up.” 

“That's a really nice idea, but how? It’s not like any of us carry around a suture kit,” Ben says, shrugging his shoulders; for a moment, Richie can see the kid he knew in his face, beyond the strong jaw and angular cheekbones. 

Beverly stares at them a moment, a thought working behind her eyes as her mouth falls open, lips curling into a slight smile as she raises a finger. “I wonder…” she says, mostly to herself as she climbs off the bed and heads over to the corner where Eddie left his pair of large suitcases stacked. 

“You can’t seriously think— “ Richie starts to say as he watches her open up both of his bags and starts digging through the contents, but he gets distracted by the trail of blood stains across the floor, leading into the bathroom, where red splatters the floor, shards of window glass sparkling in the sun. He reaches up, cupping Eddie’s cheek and feeling the bandage under his palm, the way Eddie’s flesh just moves when he presses his thumb against the center. 

_ Jesus fucking Christ. _

“Don’t blame yourself,” Ben says, tone careful and soft, his hand wrapping around Richie’s wrist, tugging his hand away and holding it, their palms pressed together as Ben squeezes. “I was right here and I didn’t even know what was happening until I heard Eddie call out. Even if you were here, you might not have been able to do anything. He’s sturdier than he looks.” 

_ Yeah, real goddamn sturdy, _ Richie thinks, but can’t bring himself to say it, not while looking at Ben’s face and having him stare back at him with those kicked, puppy dog eyes that make you never want to say a mean thing to him ever; Richie would rather lie, and he did, lied right to his face and slipped out the back door. This time he just keeps his mouth shut and lets Ben hold his hand until Beverly makes a noise that sounds like victory. 

“I knew it,” she says, coming back to the bed with a suture kit in hand, complete with latex gloves. “Of course he would have one. Oh Eddie,” she says, leaning over Eddie’s body and pressing her lips to his forehead. “You really should have been a doctor.” Beverly brushes the hair off his brow and draws back, looking towards Ben and Richie as she wipes under her eyes. “I can stitch him back together, but I need help getting these clothes off him.” 

Richie moves to Eddie’s feet again, pulling at his still damp socks as Ben lifts Eddie to allow Bev to tug his jacket off his arms and pull it out from under him, tossing it to the floor. Bev takes a pair of scissors from the kit and starts cutting Eddie’s shirt up the middle—Richie almost stops her, but remembers there’s no way to salvage anything Eddie was wearing and Richie is not sure he could look at him in the clothes if they could. Bev is able to tug the shirt out from under him with her strategic cuts to the sleeves of his t-shirt, leaving him naked to the waist and letting Richie see the extent of the damage It had inflicted. 

It’s not a gaping hole, not like a paper punch, circular and straight through, but Eddies organs and flesh seemed to have shifted, trying to clot and heal before he died, filling the place he was stabbed with gore and blood. Richie thinks he can see the curve of his still heart, tucked under a broken rib and dry heaves, knowing he could vomit if he had anything at all left in his stomach. 

“Richie,” Bev says, tremulous and delicate. “Richie, honey, you don’t have to watch. You don’t have to be here.” 

Richie shakes his head, swallowing back the wave of nausea and lets the trembling work through his body until he can make himself still. “I’m not leaving him.” 

Ben nods, while Beverly looks at him with a gaze that might have hollowed him out, if he had anything left to take away—sorrow and sympathy and pity, all wrapped up in her big blue eyes as she bites her lip and nods, too. 

Richie climbs up Eddie’s body and moves to the button of his jeans until Bev’s hand covers his own, stilling him. “We only need his shirt off, you don’t have to—” She takes in a deep breath, exhaling shakily. “You don’t have to take everything off.”

“It’s going to have to come off eventually and, besides, he’d hate being in these gross, crusty jeans. It’s okay, you don’t have to worry about his modesty.” Richie laughs; it sounds wet and choking to his ears. “He’s dead.” 

Richie tries to make it quick, open the button and unzip the fly, then hook his fingers in the waistband of the jeans and the elastic of his underwear, then pull. But his heart starts to thud and the roar of his pulse fills his ears, while his palms grow sweaty, a strange backfeed of a memory playing across his eyes looking at Eddie’s skinny hips; Richie remembers his tan belly contracting and expanding, Eddie’s panting breaths somewhere above his head as he tugged on his hair, Eddie telling him,_ fucking hurry up, why are you going so slow? Starting to think you’re not into this, Tozier. _

The memory withers and curls up in the pit of his stomach, heavy as stone. 

Richie drags Eddie’s dirty jeans and underwear down his thighs and over his calves, his vision blurred with tears, his head pounding from how much he’s cried. He pulls one foot, then the other from the jeans bunched around his ankles and drops the heap of denim and cotton onto the floor. He pulls off his glasses and sets them down on the bed, rubbing at his eyes with the heels of his palms. 

“Let’s just get this over with,” he says, trying to keep his gaze from straying to Eddie’s body, to keep from scanning him up and down and taking in the differences. He doesn’t want to look at him like that, not like this. 

He moves to the side of the bed where Ben sits on an armchair, both of them watching as Beverly arranges the kit to her liking, threading the needle. 

“Come here,” Ben says, hand latching onto Richie’s wrist and tugging him down onto the armchair with him. 

Ben doesn’t tuck Richie under his arm, instead pulls him back against his chest as his arms come around him, legs bent and bracketing him in. It feels _ safe _, almost like how home is supposed to feel, if Richie could ever remember that feeling. The closest he ever came was burrowed under the covers with Eddie when he had slept over, staying up past lights out, talking about nothing under the glow of a flashlight. Ben is warm around him, his chin resting on his shoulder and Richie tries to relax into him, let himself be held, but he can’t help the nervous giggle that erupts from his mouth. 

“What?” Ben asks, the vibration of his voice hitting Richie’s ear along with the heat of his breath. “This can’t be any weirder than what we’re planning to do, than what we’ve already done.” 

Richie chokes on a laugh, the waterworks starting up again, blurring his vision and making his eyes burn as his laughter dissolves into great heaving sobs that rattle through him, leave him trembling as Ben rubs circles into his back, as Ben lets him cry it out and holding him through it. 

He wipes his eyes when his breathing evens out, steady slow deep breaths—in through the nose and out through the mouth—things he paid five hundred dollars an hour for a therapist to tell him when he could have googled it for free. It works, for the moment. His body sags and settles against Ben, the old anxiety all cried out, too exhausted to care that he’s letting Ben hold him and Ben happens to be a man. 

“I’m gay, you know?” Richie says, for the first time out loud, the first time to Ben, and to Bev. “I’ve been gay the whole time, my big dirty secret. And I love him, I really fucking love him.” 

Maybe Richie was cracking, losing a bit more of what was left of his sanity, unable to say _ loved _and talk about Eddie in the past tense, even when he is still on the bed and not breathing as Bev stitches up his chest cavity. Maybe that’s why he says what he says, letting go of his one last secret, the only he held tight and guarded heavily, on a single breath, simple and easy. 

Ben doesn’t say anything, and Richie doesn’t expect him to, not sure if he even wants him to say anything, but Ben doesn’t let it hang in the air—his arms tighten around Richie as his cheek rubs against Richie’s, sandpaper stubble on stubble, until he feels Ben’s lips at the corner of his mouth, pressing down against his cheek. 

“I think I knew,” Bev says, not looking up from where her fingers are sewing up Eddie’s skin, staring down at Eddie like she could be talking to him. “It’s not a clear memory, just something at the back of my head, like a knot in the pit of your stomach—knowing, but not knowing how.” She glances up, looking at the both of them, her blood stained fingers stroking down Eddie’s arm. “He loves you too. Always has, probably.” 

They go quiet again, letting Beverly get back to the task at hand; Richie thinks he might have fallen asleep, mind going black and unconscious until his eyes are blinking back open when Ben shifts. Richie watches Bev after that, the way her hands move quick and precise, watching the way the sutures close up more of Eddie’s insides, making him look less dead, if it weren’t for the pallor of his skin and the lifelessness of the way his body lays. 

Then Beverly leans back on the heels of her feet, kneeling on the bed and running the back of her hand across her brow, pushing back the hair that had fallen there; her hands are bloody—Eddie’s blood, it’s everywhere now, smeared across Beverly’s forehead, creeping up her arms. “Can you guys help me roll him over? I need to stitch up the entry wound, too,” she says, glancing at them. 

Ben pats Richie’s thigh and Richie pulls himself to his feet as Ben stands up behind him; together, they walk over to the bed and together they roll Eddie’s body around, moving the pillows so not to twist his neck the wrong way. The wound along his spine is cleaner, less ravaged, just a smooth puncture. It’s getting easier to look at. 

Bev moves back to Eddie’s side, a new needle threaded and ready to go. It takes a moment, blinking away the blurriness to be sure, but Richie notices her arms and the bruises marking up her pale skin—old bruises, not fresh and haphazard, already starting to yellow at the edges, the shape of fingerprints and large, banded bruises, as thick as a belt. 

“Bev,” Richie says, his throat tight, not sure how he missed it before. “Where’d you learn to do this?” 

Beverly smiles—it doesn’t reach her eyes, guarded. “I’m a fashion designer, I kind of know my way around a needle, Richie.” 

He wants to push, but Ben claps his hand on his shoulder and squeezes, drawing Richie’s gaze to his own. Richie can see that he saw, that he knows, a tightness in his jaw and anger simmering under the surface. But it wasn’t the time, not yet. 

Eddie first, then everything else. 

  
  
  
  
  


Richie takes Eddie to his room, picking him up in his arms from the bed—lighter now, more than before, without the added weight of his clothes. He takes Eddie all the way to the bathroom and lays him carefully in the clawfoot tub, resting his head back so it doesn’t loll to the side. With his eyes closed, he looks peaceful, like he could be sleeping—Richie turns on the faucet, checking the temperature, making sure it isn’t too hot or too cold, just comfortable, then settles the plug into the drain and leans against the side of the tub. 

Bev’s sutures bind up Eddie’s chest in a neat line, one on his chest and another along his spine—Richie runs his finger along the black, tightly woven thread that holds Eddie together like a mended doll, the edges of his flesh not alive to start healing itself while the water fills up in the tub around him. Richie doesn’t fill it up too much when he notices the water already growing brown. 

“Sorry, Eds,” Richie starts, waiting for the tension in his throat to grow, but it never comes, something loosening in his chest as he talks to Eddie, peeling the dirty bandage from his cheek. “I’m doing my best here. I’ll get you as clean as I can. I know you hate this.” 

The knife wound has clotted and started to scab over, so Richie tries to remember to be careful when he reaches Eddie’s face. He tosses the bandage in the wastebasket and pulls a washcloth from the towel rod and grabs a bar of soap, dipping both in the water and rubbing them together to build up a lather. Eddie’s limbs are softening in the water, the heat of the temperature making his flesh less cool to the touch, almost warm as Richie starts with his feet, running the washcloth from the heel of his foot to his toes, then over the top, scrubbing away any dirt and grime before moving up his calves. 

In the back of his mind, Richie can hear echoes of water splashing and children’s laughter, warm bright images of sudsy bubble baths and tangled limbs, his head feeling light like someone was dunking his head under water and holding him there—how gasping for breath when he finally broke free and floated to the surface, heart pounding and head spinning, felt a little like how he felt looking at Eddie. 

“I keep remembering stuff, about you and me,” Richie says, laughing and ducking his head; he pulls the plug and lets the filthy water drain all the way before replacing it with fresh, clean water. “I need you back because I need to ask you if you remember, too. Make sure it’s just not me. Kind of selfish, right? Yeah, well, you know I don't give a rat’s ass about that. It wasn’t fair, what happened to you.” 

Richie thinks he must have dried up the well because no tears come, not when he thinks back a few hours and remembers the look on Eddie’s face as he said his name, Eddie’s own blood spilling out after. A fierce sort of burning builds in the pit of his stomach, eroding away the guilt that tries to bubble up; Richie feels his jaw tighten, his hands squeezing into fists. “I’m gonna get you back, Eds, I swear.” He drapes the wash cloth on the rim of the tub, resting the soap on top as he reaches over and twists the knobs of the faucet, letting the water warm up again before stopping the drain. 

He pulls off his clothes as the water fills up—clear this time, most of the grime erased in the first wash. Richie’s cheeks burn, a flush growing down his chest, and he almost stops as his hands reach the button of pants, shirt already off. 

_ You’re really going to do this, huh, Tozier? _ he thinks to himself, a voice that sounds a little like how he thinks Stan would have sounded now. _ Bathing with a corpse is a new one. _

But it doesn’t linger, the embarrassment fading away at the thought of going elsewhere, finding another place to shower and leaving Eddie alone. 

_ Not gonna happen. _

Richie kicks his pants and underwear off his ankles towards where he dropped his shirt, then leans over the bath to shut the water off, the depth around Eddie’s waist now. He grabs a bottle of shampoo and sets it down on the table beside the tub. He doesn’t hesitate; he lifts Eddie up by the shoulders, leaning him forward as he steps in behind him. 

Parts of Eddie are still cool to the touch, but the heat of the water has warmed his legs to the point that Richie can almost pretend that there’s still life in there when he slides his along them, but then he lets Eddie fall against his chest. He feels the way he flops and the way his head lolls, neck no longer supporting it and Richie tries to keep it straight, resting Eddie’s head back against his shoulder as he settles on the bottom of the tub, Eddie’s narrow hips between his thighs. 

Richie wets Eddie’s hair down with his hands, then reaches for the shampoo, working it into a lather and combing his fingers through the sudsy strands, working the shampoo into his scalp and cleaning up anything that got caught in there from the sewers or the debris, then rinsing his hair clean. 

“I hope you don’t have some special shampoo you use, I didn’t bother looking for your toiletry bag. Maybe I should have, but I think we’re on a bit of a time crunch,” Richie says, moving the washcloth over Eddie’s face, wiping away the dried blood from around his mouth and the lines of it that dripped down his neck and stained his collarbones. Underneath the soap and shampoo, Richie is starting to smell the scent of rot—pungent and earthy, organic breaking down of flesh and organs, raw in a way that makes his stomach twist and bury his face against Eddie’s neck, seeking out what he remembers of his scent. 

Richie keeps his face there, working the soap and the washcloth over Eddie’s chest, avoiding the fresh stitches and moving onto his arms, starting underneath and working his way out. Richie scrubs Eddie’s hands between his own before dropping them back into the water to rinse the soap away. He lets go and nudges Eddie forward, hating the way he slumps, keeling over to the side, boneless. 

“Sorry, I have to get your back, buddy. I promise to be quick,” Richie says, running the washcloth from Eddie’s hips to his shoulders, wiping away the last of the grime and dirt. 

He tugs Eddie back, letting him rest on his chest while he tries to catch his breath, his heart starting to skitter and thud, panic settling back in. Richie tries to wrap his arms around Eddie, holding tight and shutting his eyes as the wave of anxiety goes back down.

Time passes, but Richie isn’t sure how long; he comes back to himself slow, tapped awake by the sound of voices coming from the hall and growing louder. He can make out Beverly and Ben, then the resonate sound of Mike—it’s almost time, then. 

“He’s cleaning Eddie up, I am not sure if he’s done, so maybe we should wait for him to come out,” he hears Bev say, trying to keep her voice low out of some sense of respect, tone placating. 

But it doesn’t seem to stop Mike, Richie surmises when he hears the floorboard creak as Mike enters his room. “We’ve already taken enough time, we need to hurry up now, if we want this to work.” Bev and Ben’s footsteps don’t follow, just Mike walking across the floor and Mike’s hand that makes the bathroom door swing all the way open. 

Mike stands, showered and new change of clothes, a heavy satchel around his shoulder, staring down at Richie in the bathtub, clutching at Eddie’s corpse like it was a goddamn teddy bear. 

“Hey Mikey,” he says, grinning as laughter bubbles in his chest. “This is all sorts of fucked up, right?” 

Mike shrugs, and Richie wonders if that’s what Derry does to you, when exposed long term—gives you the ability to shrug when you see something truly bizarre. “I’ve seen worse,” is all he says, and Richie wouldn’t expect anything else. 

Mike moves back into Richie’s room and when he reappears, the satchel is gone and he is coming closer to the tub, kneeling at the side. “Do you mind if I take him? There are a few things I have to do for the ritual and it will give you enough time to finish cleaning up. Is that alright, Rich?” 

A stubborn flash inside him makes him wind his arms tighter around Eddie’s torso, his inner thirteen-year-old kicking up a fuss, but he loosens his grip looking at Mike, his brown eyes wide and empathetic, approaching him with open hands. Richie relents. 

“You should grab the towel on the rack, there’s another I can use, so don’t worry,” he says, before Mike grabs Eddie. 

Mike nods and reaches for the white bath towel, unfurling it and draping it over his hands as Richie lifts Eddie up, passing him into Mike’s hands as he wraps the towel around him, folding him up and cradling him like a baby to his chest. “I’ll take care of him,” Mike says, getting to his feet and moving towards the door. “Also, uh—” Mike turns in the doorway, his eyes flicking back and forth as he bites down on his lower lip. “Don’t bother getting dressed.” 

Richie tries to ask why, but Mike is swift in moving from the bathroom and using his foot to kick the door closed behind him, leaving Richie to relative privacy. He pushes himself to his feet and yanks the plug out the drain with his toes, dragging the shower curtain back into the tub and all around it as he turns on the faucet. 

The water is room temperature, edging towards cold and not growing any warmer, which is fine; he is going to make this quick, scrubbing himself down in brisk, furious movements. 

  
  
  
  


Richie doesn’t get dressed, by request—he wishes the inn was the kind of place that provided its guests with fluffy, white robes, but he makes do with the last towel, rubbing it over his head, squeezing out the dampness of his hair before wrapping it around his waist, tucking it and securing it at his hip. 

He takes a deep breath before pushing open the bathroom door. 

Richie isn’t sure what he expected, if he had any expectations at all, but Eddie laid out nude on the bed with his head in Bev’s lap while Bill, Ben, and Mike gathered around the bed, all glancing up at him when he enters still takes him aback. 

“Hey, guys,” he says, his nerves making him chuckle and wave. “All of us ready to try another one of Mikey’s rituals? Well,” he pauses, clapping his hands together, “let’s do this thing.” 

Richie watches the four of them exchange glances, Ben and Beverly wearing matching flushes as Bill keeps his arms crossed over his chest, looking down at his shoes—only Mike keeps eye contact, looking straight at Richie with warm browns filled with sympathy and a bitter sort of pity that make Richie’s fists ball up at his sides. 

Mike clears his throat and moves across the room towards Richie, an old leather bound book in his hands. He gestures for Richie to sit, but Richie can’t make himself move from the edge of the bed, his gaze pulled back to Eddie laying prone, limbs stretched out, Bev’s fingers stroking through his hair. Mike brings the book into his line of vision; the pages were old, yellowed parchment and the text handwritten script, ink bleeding through the pages. 

“I just want you to know that if after I explain this, you change your mind and you don’t want to do this, we all understand. You can back out now, but once the ritual has started, there is no going back,” Mike tells him, his hand coming to rest on his shoulder, hand squeezing. “None of us will be mad if you decided you can’t do this.” 

Richie laughs, shaking his head. “I told you, Mikey, I will do anything short of murder. Maybe even murder, if pushed. But this isn’t anything illegal, right?” 

“Not technically, I don’t think,” Mike says, shrugging. Richie puts a pin in that, reminding himself to ask Mike about all the things he had gotten up to in the last twenty-seven years when this is all over. 

“So, are you going to tell me what we’re doing here or are you just going to tell me what to do like some beyond fucked up, kinky sex game?” Richie tries to force a grin, but the room remains dead quiet, the color draining from their faces. “What? Is this a sex thing? Is that why I need to be naked?” 

No one answers, but their stricken expressions are answer enough, then Mike nods. “Sort of. It’s about your connection to Eddie, and the Deadlights, which both you and Beverly looked into. It’s changed you both, made you more susceptible to the other side. One of you needs to go into the underworld and find Eddie’s soul, and the other—needs to be an anchor, to help draw Eddie back to his body.” 

“Is this just a fancy way of saying that I need to fuck my best friend’s corpse? Because you can just say that, Mike, no need to beat around the bush.” Richie tries to smile, but no one smiles back; his insides have started to twist and churn, a sick, sinking feeling filling his guts. “Do I need to just fuck him, or do I need to fuck him and come? Because the latter might be a bit difficult, but I think I can manage.” 

“The ritual states that you have to give him your life essence,” Mike says, wincing when Richie laughs, loud and hysterical. 

“Okay, got it. I fuck Eddie’s corpse and come inside him, then he wakes up like _ Sleeping Beauty _, only the Grimm’s version, not the family friendly, Disney-ifed version. Cool.” Richie moves to sit on the edge of the bed because his knees are beginning to feel shaky and weak. He watches as Mike come to kneel beside him and takes his hand, holding it in a firm grip. “I hope you didn’t pick up lube at Keene’s Pharmacy because that would be awkward, man,” Richie says, unable to stifle they laughter bubbling out of his throat. 

Mike rubs his thumb across the back of Richie’s hand, holding steady as Richie starts to tighten his grip. “Like I said, you don’t have to do this, you can back out now and we’ll forget we ever discussed it.” 

Richie looks down into his eyes and sees the truth there, honest and open Mike, steadfast in ways the rest of them couldn’t begin to comprehend. Richie slides his hand across the bedspread and runs his fingers along the delicate bones of Eddie’s ankle. 

“Fuck that, I said I’m doing it, so let’s do it.” 

  
  


Touching Eddie again feels more like a homecoming than stepping foot in Derry, but this wasn’t how he wanted to touch him, it wasn’t how he imagine it at all. Eddie’s skin has cooled again, room temperature under Richie’s hands as he moves his palm up his calf, trying to arrange his limbs to accommodate what needs to be done. Richie splays out Eddie’s legs, trying not to lean back and look at the display, couldn’t take the combination of death and obscenity without dry heaving, his stomach too empty for vomit. 

Mike moves around the room, lighting candles and incense. Bill and Ben stand on either side of the bed, hovering and waiting, while Bev cups Eddie’s head and leans over him to kiss his forehead, whispering something Richie can’t hear as her hair falls down around them, creating a momentary curtain. Mike dims the lights and draws the curtains closed, giving the room a warm glow against the heavy shadows; Richie is glad for it, hoping the low light will help to pretend, not having to look at Eddie in the glaring light, but let the shade see what he wants to see. 

Ben and Bill turn away when Richie reaches for the tube of lubrication that Mike had handed to him, but Bev keeps her eyes on him, her gaze soft but direct, urging him to keep going. He warms the cool liquid between his fingers out of instinct, rubbing it across his palms, he reaches between Eddie’s legs and tries to imagine him alive— 

—memories hit hard now, slamming into him full force, his hands shaking like the first time, while Eddie looked down at him with that half-annoyed, impatient look on his face, brown eyes turning molten with arousal above his pink cheeks, Eddie telling him,_ hurry up already, dumbass _, the heel of his foot kicking above Richie’s hip. 

Eddie is loose when his fingers push against him, grounding him back in reality, all life gone from his muscles, leaving him limp and open; it’s too easy to slick him up, get him ready. Richie couldn’t remember when this was ever easy, Eddie squirming and pushing against his fingers, begging and bitching him out in equal measure—he doesn’t like the stillness, the way Eddie doesn’t pull him in, no resistance, no fight left in his body. He swallows back the sob that threatens to tip over his lips, can’t break down now, can’t fall apart. 

Richie strokes himself to hardness under his towel, trying to think about anything other than what he is about to do, trying to unearth well-buried memories that he hasn’t even begun to unpack, but makes his stomach turn over and flutter. 

(Eddie’s warm, sun-golden skin under his hands, smiling up at him with dimples pulling at his round, smooth cheeks; Eddie stretched out in his bed, arching up, light drifting through the curtains that hadn’t been drawn closed well enough; the smell of Eddie’s skin, somewhere between sweet and antiseptic, acrid alcohol at the base under the fragrance of soap, how it felt to be over him, under him, their hands pressed together, fingers intertwined, the scars of their palms brushing) 

“It’s now or never, Mikey,” he says, squeezing himself, trying to keep his erection from wilting, slicking himself up in the process. “I am not sure how long I can keep it up.” He laughs, trying to shake out the last of her nerves as he watches everyone gather around the bed. “I promise even _ I _ can’t make a dick joke at my own expense right now.” 

Richie watches the way Mike’s lips twitch, but then his expression locks down, face solemn. “There’s just one more thing I need to do,” he says, drawing up a thin needle, picking up a bowl filled with pungent smelling dried herbs with scents Richie can’t recognize. “The blood oath already bound us, but I need a sacrifice of blood from each of you before we can begin. Don’t worry, it’s just a finger prick, not slicing our palms open.” 

Richie offers Mike his clean hand. “Take my droplet of blood quick,” he says, feeling Mike take his hand in his warm dry ones; it’s quick, a sudden jab and Mike is squeezing the pad of his finger over the bowl of herbs, letting Richie’s hand go and moving towards Bill. 

His finger throbs and pulsates, but he doesn’t bother drawing it into his mouth or wrapping the end of his towel around it, he lets the blood flow as he kneels, then lowers himself down across Eddie’s body while everyone is looking elsewhere—everyone but Bev, but he’s grown used to her stare. He lets the towel slide off his hips to pool on the bed beside them. The soft insides of Eddie’s thighs brush his hips as he angles himself into position; he moans, forgetting himself, getting pulled back into memory, the imprint of feeling Eddie’s thighs over his hips, around his waist. 

Then he edges the tip of his cock inside, feeling only cool slickness. His stomach drops out, as he collapses on top of Eddie, burying his face against his throat, wishing to to feel a pulse, but there is nothing fluttering under his skin. Beverly’s hand finds the back of his head, stroking his still damp hair back, combing out tangles with the tips of her fingers. 

“He’ll be back soon,” she says, a steely assuredness that Richie wants to steal a piece of, just enough to stop the way his body trembles. 

After Mike collects the last of the blood from himself, they move into position around the bed. Richie feels Bill’s shaking fingers rest against his left shoulder, and Mike’s hands resting on his right—everyone had to be touching, he remembers Mike saying that, the contact important, but he shudders all the same, trying to ignore their warm hands on his skin. 

Mike starts speaking in a language that could be Latin, or something older, more ancient, reading from the leather bound book as Bev holds onto his wrist. The pair of them set the herbs wet with their combined blood alight, then Mike nods his head and Richie swallows, pushing his hips forward. 

Richie lifts his head and covers Eddie’s mouth with his own, pressing a hard kiss to his unmoving mouth as he sinks inside—the angle is bad, not very deep, but he can’t bring himself to move his hands from the sides of Eddie’s face, his fingers brushing Bev’s as she runs her fingers from his brow to his temples. His thrusts are shallow and quick, something perfunctory about it, letting his body move into Eddie, feeling the sutures rub against his chest and tries not to gag at the taste of rot in Eddie’s mouth. He pulls back, letting his face fall against his collarbone, his hands sliding down to hold onto his hips, his tears starting to fall as he lets his mind take him elsewhere, away from Mike’s chanting and the squeak of the springs of the old hotel bed. 

He goes to where Eddie is warm and breathing under him, panting in his ear, _ come on, Rich, I know you can fuck me better than that _; the memory of Eddie’s teeth in his shoulder and his nails scratching down his back pushing away the feeling of his corpse underneath Richie now, the smell of Eddie gone sour under the soap. Richie tries to reach into the past, flip through the memories he can only now access like paging through a photo album, trying to land on something real to take him away from the curl of arousal growing hotter in his gut, despite Eddie laying prone under him, his ass cold around his cock, not even friction heating him up. 

His orgasm hits hard but empty, pleasure rolling over him in sick waves, the heavy sinking guilt following at its heels; it is a familiar, old feeling—Richie at thirteen, jerking off hard enough to hurt, thinking of the way his best friend’s legs look in shorts, how pink his mouth is, how he’d like to see if his lips are as soft as they look. The sob he lets out hurts his ears, rubs his throat raw. 

Richie looks up, vision blurring, but he can make out Beverly’s face, but her eyes are closed and she has gone still. 

_ Go get him, get him and bring him back to me, please, _he thinks. 

  
  
  


When Beverly opens her eyes, she is looking at herself cradling Eddie’s head, standing away from the bed at a distance that feels impossible, but the world feels less tangible, more made of shadows and heavy mist; Mike’s voice echoes, like it’s coming down from on high, like he was shouting at her from atop the cliff at the quarry, her ears waterlogged. 

She pulls away from the scene, letting herself drift down the stairs and out of the inn, letting herself be led by instinct, by the pulling sensation at the center of herself, remembering what Mike told her. 

_ Let your gut lead you, don’t get distracted by anything you see, don’t stop moving until you find him. _

Beverly moves down through the streets of Derry, the world gone gray and the shadows move at the corners of her eyes; if she lets herself drift, she can sense the other souls, tethered in the Derry underneath Derry. 

_ No one that dies here ever really dies, _ Mrs. Kersh that wasn’t Mrs. Kersh had said to her. 

It had left its mark, even in the face of its destruction—Derry is still an open wound, only just begun healing, but it goes deep and the scar will be ugly and lasting. They only killed the infection, stopped its spread, she realizes now. 

_ Eddie, _ she thinks, glad not for the first time that they decided not to leave him here, _ we’re getting you out. _

Beverly blinks, something tugging her along, then she opens her eyes and finds herself in front of 29 Neibolt Street, the house still standing like she hadn’t watched it sink into the ground hours ago. It’s not the same house that they all had entered, like the clock had been turned back twenty-seven years, the rot still there, but it feels like just a house and only a house—old and creaky, but not the home of nightmares. 

She climbs up the steps and lets herself inside. 

Beverly knows the way from there, the path written on her soul somewhere behind her eyes, allowing her to find her way down the well and further below even if she were blindfolded—like a sick, sinking sensation that feels a bit like coming home. She might have lost a bit of herself down here and she’ll never get it back. 

The cistern is dry when she reaches it, a light streaming down onto the platform as shadows circle around it; she blinks and thinks she sees bodies of children, but blinks again and it is only shadows, dancing on the edge of the light. She climbs up the mountain made of stolen childhoods, artifacts that go back centuries, Pennywise’s treasure trove of trophies, tokens to remember his victims by. The hatch is open when Beverly reaches the top, so she just slides down into the hole, going deeper underground, towards the dead heart of Derry. 

She hears Eddie before she sees him, his voice bouncing off the cavern walls, the sound pushing her forward as she crawls through the last of the crevices and pulls herself to feet. 

“How much longer do I have to wait? What am I waiting for?” she hears Eddie ask, not sure who he is directing the question to until she looks up and sees the giant turtle resting in the cradle of rock formation where It had hit all those billions of years ago. “I am going to keep asking you until you give me a straight answer, you useless fucking turtle.” 

Beverly sees Eddie tucked on a rock, sitting with his legs folded and crossed underneath him— he looks small, smaller than the man she had met, something young in his face when it screws up and looks pinched as he glares up at the turtle. She gasps, realizing he looks like the boy in her memories, all angles and big eyes and cherub cheeks, then she blinks and it’s Eddie again, bandage she applied still attached to his cheek. 

_ BEVERLY MARSH, _ the turtle booms, drawing its eyes toward her; one of its eyes is bigger than her whole body, shiny and black, glittering with galaxies within the depths of his gaze. _ GOOD TO SEE YOU HAVE COME. _

Eddie’s head whips around and his eyes fall on her—young again, wide and watering, but not crying, she’s not sure if they can cry here. She can feel his anguish radiating in her direction, a keening ache that pulsates through her entire being. Then his gaze is ripped away as he stands up on the rock he was sitting on, fists balled at his sides, the sorrow burning under the heat of his anger as he tries to look at the turtle straight in one eye. “Are we waiting for everyone one of my friends to die? Is that what the fuck I’m waiting for?” 

_ EDWARD _—the turtle starts, but Beverly yells, “Eddie, no, I’m not dead!” Eddie sags after that, slumping down the rock and turning his back to the turtle as he crosses the distance between them. 

“Then why are you _ here _ , Bev?” he asks, standing at a height with her, but his face is smooth, free of the signs of age, no wrinkles and creases— _ was this what he looked like at eighteen, at twenty? _He trembles in front of her, uncertainty rolling into her, making her smile, bright and broad, lifting her hands. 

_ SHE IS WHO YOU WERE WAITING FOR _, the turtle says as Beverley’s hands land on Eddie’s shoulders, feeling him solid and warm as she tugs him against her, wrapping her arms around him, burying her face into his neck. 

“The turtle is right, we’re getting you back,” she whispers to him, feeling him tense in her arms, but she clings a little harder. “You’re coming back with me.” 

Eddie pulls back and his face has lines again, wrinkles in his forehead as his brow furrows. “What do you mean, I am coming back with you? I’m dead, Bev. There’s no coming back from dead,” he says, his eyes staring into hers, his gaze searching. “What have you guys done?” 

Beverly feels the answer lodged in her throat, but she can’t spit it out, choking on it as Eddie holds her arms and continues to stare at her, waiting. She can’t wrap her tongue around how to explain that losing Stan was like losing a limb, a part of her, a part of all of them will always feel hollowed out where Stan should be and she is not sure they could survive another severing—that she’s not sure Richie could survive it at all. 

“Richie, he—” she starts, stuttering and stumbling, feeling a bit like Bill. “You didn’t see him, how wrecked he was and Mike, he had an idea, some sort of ritual. It’s happening right now. I’m playing my part.” 

Eddie steps away from her, his hands dropping to his sides as he shakes his head. “None of this sounds good, Bev. I’m dead, just let me be dead. I’ve been trying to walk towards the light or whatever happens, but Maturin here,” he says, throwing his arms up, gesturing towards the turtle. “Maturin wouldn’t let me and wouldn’t explain.” 

_EDWARD KASPBRAK,_ Maturin says, swiveling so both his massive eyes are gazing upon them. _ THIS IS A GIFT. FOR WHAT YOU HAVE DONE. WHAT YOU ALL HAVE DONE. _

Beverly watches Eddie, his mouth falling open, his eyes alight like he might argue, but he stills when caught in Maturin’s gaze. 

_ TAKE IT. THIS IS YOUR LIGHT, GO TO IT. _

Eddie turns back towards her, eyebrows raised, but something loosens in his stance, smoothing over his face—younger, again, but not by much. He shrugs. “I guess I should listen. I think he’s like a god or something. Opposite Pennywise, but almost as annoying,” he says, and Beverly laughs.

She reaches out her hand and Eddie takes it, intertwining their fingers, palms pressed together. 

They climb back out from under the house at 29 Neibolt Street, pulling each other up, level by level until they both land on the dusty, creaking floorboards of the house that is now just a house. 

“Just follow me and don’t look around. Mike said we shouldn’t look around. I can feel other souls lingering,” she says, glancing at Eddie. “I am not sure if this is the lasting impact of It, or if they’re something else, but I’m not sure what they’d do, so just keep your eyes ahead, okay?” Bev finishes, waiting for Eddie to nod; he does, then squeezes her hand. 

“Before we get back, I should probably explain what this ritual entailed so that you’re not shocked when we get you back into your body,” she says, grimacing. 

“As long as there’s no human or animal sacrifices, I’m sure it’ll be fine. I imagine it’s weird, but is anything about our lives not weird?” He grins, a dimple carving into his cheek and Beverly can’t resist running her thumb over the curve of it. 

“Weird is certainly one way to describe it,” she says. 

  
  
  
  
  


Beverly leads Eddie back into the inn and up the stairs, bypassing his room and heading for Richie’s. Eddie isn’t sure what he is expecting when Beverly pushes back the door, but he gasps at the scene in front of him, his hands covering his mouth when Beverly glances at him sidelong. 

“I told you,” she says, reaching out to push his hands away from his mouth. “Please don’t judge us, especially not him.” 

Eddie isn’t sure what to call what he is feeling, a twisted mix of shock and fascination, but he can’t find judgement anywhere, just a curiosity that draws him closer to the bed, keeping to the edges of the circle, watching the way Richie moves on top of him, his hips rocking as the muscles in his back and thighs work to drive himself inside of Eddie. 

“So how do I get back inside my body?” he asks, not able to tear his eyes away from trembling of Richie’s body, the agonizing sound of his sobs, intermixed with moans and whimpers. “Do I just climb back inside?” 

Beverly shrugs. “I am not sure. Mike didn’t explain that part. I think we’re all kind of winging it, so we can try that and see if that works?” 

Eddie nods. It’s easy to get on the bed, moving through Mike’s arm as he goes noncorporeal, and reaching out to touch his own hand. 

Nothing happens. 

He tries to climb on top of himself, to lay down inside his body, but he hands fall on Richie’s shoulder, making purchase instead of going through—then he feels like he tripped over something, falling head over feet. 

Eddie thought coming back to life would be gradual, in increments, like a sudden flutter of a pulse as a finger moves, twitching; he didn’t think that he would remember being dead or dying, or his trip through the underworld of Derry with Bev—just coming to slow, liking coming out of a coma, only with Richie on top of him. 

It’s not like that at all.

He comes back to life with a gasp and a jolt, and thinks maybe this is what being electrocuted feels like, everything on tenterhooks, neurons firing as his nerve endings awaken and fire up. His heart starts thudding hard in his his healed over chest, blood moving everywhere making his body tingle, the way laying too long in one position will make your limbs fall asleep. His neck is wet where Richie’s face had been pressed, before he lifts his head at Eddie’s gasp, the drying tears burning like salt water. 

Eddie’s skin feels scrubbed raw, like layers had been taken off, leaving him with only too new skin that had never been touched before—sensitive to everything, making him jerk and squirm against the cheap scratchiness of the bedspread under his back and arch up against Richie. 

Richie is all over him, hot and heavy, sweat making their skin stick together, the scent of him musky and cloying at the back of his throat, his hands cupping around Eddie’s face as he looks at him with red, puffy eyes and hair drying in a tangled mess on top of his head—he looks like shit, utterly ruined, but Eddie can’t help thinking he looks beautiful as his grin breaks into a smile, teeth cutting over his lips as he starts to tremble, shaking against Eddie as laughter starts to bubble out of his throat. 

“Eds, you came back,” he says, brushing Eddie’s hair off his forehead, his right hand still cupped around Eddie’s jaw, thumb stroking the scar where the knife wound had been. “I got you back.” 

Eddie knows everyone is around them—he can feel Beverly’s thighs under his head, her fingers stroking the skin at his temples, her warm tears dripping onto his forehead and he can feel the way the bed dips to his left, where Ben is kneeling, the denim of his jeans against Eddie’s elbow, and he can feel Mike and Bill’s eyes on him, all of them giving him watery, relieved smiles—but he can’t help shifting and feeling the way his hips are pinned down, how his cock is waking up with the rest of his body, how pressed in deep Richie is. 

He doesn’t think about it, hands reaching up and tugging on the ends of Richie’s stupid hair, pulling him down hard enough that their foreheads crash together until Eddie gets the angle right, lifting his chin as he shoves his mouth on Richie’s, fingers pressing into the base of his skull to keep him in place as Richie freezes, tries to pull back. Richie might have made some sort of protest, but Eddie snuffed it out with his tongue, pushing inside his mouth when Richie’s lips go slack, tension in his body melting away. 

“Hey, hey, hey,” Richie pants out against his mouth, pulling back and stroking his hands down the sides of Eddie’s face. “I know being dead, then not being dead, and waking up like this may be a bit of a shock, but you don’t—”

Eddie pushes on his shoulders, wrapping his legs around Richie's waist—it feels a little like muscle memory, rolling Richie onto his back, like he knows just the way to twist his body and push up with the heels of his feet until their positions are reversed, catching Richie’s wrists in his hands and pinning them down on the bed beside his head. Beverly scoots out of the way before Richie was flattens out, Ben moving with her closer to the head of the bed—Mike and Bill say something, but he can’t make out what it is over the rush in his ears, over the sound of his own moan, gasping out of his mouth when he slides all the way down on Richie’s cock. 

“Do you ever shut up?” Eddie asks, leaning over him as Richie tips his head towards him, open eyes despite the swelling, pupils blown wide, making his eyes look black and shiny. Richie’s mouth falls open, but no sound comes out, so Eddie lowers his mouth again, brushing a wet, open mouthed kiss across his lips. “I can do whatever I want. I died and came back to life, dumbass.” 

Eddie thinks, in a distant part of his mind, that maybe he should be embarrassed—naked and hard, straddling Richie’s hips with his cock stretching and filling him up. His ass feels slick and warm, filled with the kind of stickiness he is starting to remember he liked, the right kind of filthy that makes his brain synapses fire all wrong. He releases Richie’s hands to rest his hands against his sternum, pushing himself up and rocking his hips forward, then back. Richie’s hands reach out and stroke his back, fingers grazing the spot where It has impaled him, a line of ugly scarred flesh left behind that feels white-hot and electric when touched. Eddie feels his spine arch and his body start to tremble, every inch of his skin like a sweet spot, leaving him a livewire—almost too much to bear, but just this side of not enough. 

None of the others leave, and Eddie doesn’t blame them—the shame they might have felt long left the building. He tries not to think about it, tries to lean into the sensation growing at a rapid pace, instead of feeling their friends’ eyes on them, on him, but it’s comforting, in a fucked up way, to have them here and feel their presence around him. 

Eddie can’t lift his hips the way he wants to, his legs shaking too much to push himself up on his knees and drop back down, can’t do anything but move his hips and grind against Richie’s cock. He’s too sensitive, every brush of Richie inside him feels like it could push him over the edge, like he just didn’t come back to life but was remade, reborn, every touch brand new and for the first time. 

“Come on, Eds,” Richie says, his hand moving from Eddie’s hips to sliding around his cock, gripping him as he twists and strokes down the length of him, making Eddie buck forward, teetering on the edge. “Wanna see you, I think I remember, but I wanna see you.” 

It comes down on Eddie fast, like waking back up in his body in reverse, cresting to a point that overtakes him, his vision whiting out, until the world goes black again. 

Eddie wakes up with his cheek pressed to Richie’s chest, the feeling of his body rising and falling with his heavy breaths, the sound of his muffled heartbeat drumming under his ear. Richie catches his eyelids fluttering open, and grins at him, running his hand across the back of his head. 

“Welcome back to the land of the living,” he says, then laughs, shaking under Eddie. “Again.” 

Eddie pushes himself up, sliding off Richie’s hips and landing back against the mattress, the world tilting, making his head go light. He feels dizzy until he stills, looking at the five sets of eyes staring at him. 

He’s not sure who starts it first, but tears well up in his eyes as everyone looks at him with their own shiny eyes, choking, happy sobs filling his ears and shaking through his chest. Ben launches himself at him first, elbowing Richie out of the way as Richie slaps his arm, but lets Ben gather Eddie up in his arms and crush him to his chest, kissing him on the top of his head. 

Ben is warm and smells nice, even stripped down to just soap, clean and fresh when Eddie buries his face in his neck. “I’m glad we got you back,” he whispers, while squeezing Eddie tight. 

“You’re going to suffocate him hugging him like that,” Eddie hears Richie say. 

Eddie sees a hand land on Ben’s shoulder and Ben loosens his hold, moving back to reveal Beverly. “Yeah, don’t squeeze all the air out of him,” she says, reaching for Eddie and wrapping him up in a hug, just as firm, her tears mixing with his as she presses kisses all over his face. 

He’s passed to Mike next, who cups his hands around his face, grinning a broad smile as tears drip down his cheeks. “I never wanted anything bad to happen to you,” Mike says, leaning forward to press his forehead against Eddie’s, Eddie resting his hands on his wrists. “I wouldn’t have been able to forgive myself if I didn’t try.” 

“Thanks for trying, Mikey,” Eddie says, breathing in deep as Mike presses forward and kisses him once, very firm and wet, on his mouth, pulling back with his head ducked down and Eddie reaching out to press his palm against his cheek. “You’ve always looked out for me.” 

They both look up when Bill makes a wounded noise, watching as Bill breaks down into hiccuping sobs that rattle his whole body. Eddie has to tug him into a hug, Bill’s face falling into the crook of Eddie’s neck as Mike rubs Bill’s back, both of them waiting until his sobs subside and Bill looks up at Eddie with red eyes. “I’m so sorry,” he says, eyes bright blue and looking haunted. “I couldn’t do anything and you—y-you—”

“I’m right here and I’m fine. There wasn’t anything you could have done, so forgive yourself already,” he says, while Bill laughs, light and shaking as Bill’s hand comes up to ruffle Eddie’s hair.

“Sure,” Bill says, giving him a quick squeeze.

“Alright, that’s enough,” Richie says, and then Eddie feels a hand wrap around his wrist and tug, drawing him back onto the bed; Richie pulls him against his side, winding and arm around his shoulders, lounging back on the mattress as Eddie reaches up and intertwines their fingers. 

Eddie expects everyone to disperse back to their own rooms—it’s been a long night and an even longer day, and he can see the exhaustion in their eyes, but he feels Beverley crawl over and snuggle up against his side, casting her arm over his waist as she rests her head on his shoulder. Ben follows her, boxing Richie in with his arm thrown over his chest and his legs tangling with Richie’s. It’s not long before Mike and Bill are climbing up on the bed, finding a space to let their bodies fall, curling around the group and each other, finishing the pile of bodies and limbs. 

“Gee, I hope we don’t break this bed because the ghosts that run this inn are not charging me for the damage,” Richie says, his breath hot on Eddie’s neck, tickling the skin of his throat. 

Eddie laughs, burying his face in Richie’s collarbone. “I’m really gross and you’re really gross, but they’ve trapped us on this bed.” 

“Too bad,” Bev says, smiling against Eddie’s shoulder. “Please be quiet, some of us are trying to sleep.” 

"Yeah,” Mike says, yawning long and loud. “Be quiet, Trashmouth.” 

“Hey, I’m not the one complaining how gross he is and how much he wants a shower—” 

Someone throws a pillow, landing it on Richie’s face and Eddie bites on his bottom lip to keep from cackling. 

  
  
  
  


Richie lingers in the doorframe of Eddie’s room as he putters about, collecting his things, then folding them back into his two very large suitcases—Eddie has a list that he keeps double checking, marking it up, making sure that everything is well and accounted for after Beverly had torn through his bags. Richie can’t help but feel lucky, being able to get to see Eddie be this precise, this goddamn anal rentive, at least one more time. 

Everyone was packing up, after they had dragged themselves from sleep. They’re not all taking off yet, planning to stay another day to hang around with each other—there’s a hesitation to say goodbye, at least for right now. 

Richie knocks on the door jam when he sees Eddie about to count his pile of sharply folded shirts for the third time, drawing Eddie’s head around towards him, his stomach doing that stupid flip-flopping, butterflies thing when Eddie smiles at him, just like it had done when he was thirteen years old. 

“So,” Richie says, stepping into the room, crossing his arms over his chest. “You think you can take a break from counting your many articles of clothing and come with me. There’s something I’d like to show you.” 

Eddie looks thoughtful for a moment, like he was mulling it over, making Richie’s heart rise up in his throat over the prospect that he might say no, but then he grins, shrugging as he pushes his hands into the pockets of his jeans. “I guess I am curious enough to know what you have to show me in Derry, of all places, so lead the way, Tozier.” 

Richie leads him down the stairs. They both wave at Ben and Bev sitting on the sofa, heads bowed together, looking deep in some serious conversation that makes Richie feel a bit sick with nerves and tries to shake them off, swallowing hard. He almost goes to the passenger’s side door and opens it for Eddie, but Eddie stops him with a look that says _ what the fuck, man _that sends him walking around the front of his flashy rental and sliding into the driver’s seat. 

Eddie wraps the seatbelt around himself and Richie hears it click, then feels Eddie’s eyes on him, waiting for him to do the same. “Do you really still not wear a seatbelt?” he asks, voice full of disbelief, with a hint of smug superiority that goes straight to Richie’s dick, something he will never begin to understand. 

Richie pulls the door shut. “You know I love to live dangerously, baby,” he says, tossing a grin in Eddie’s direction as he turns the key in the ignition, hearing the car turn over then roar to life. 

They fall into a companionable silence as Richie drives through downtown. It hasn’t changed and Richie isn’t sure why he expected it to, like killing the old clown for good might make the place seem brighter, more welcoming, but the well had been poisoned for far too long and maybe Derry will never recover. Eddie doesn’t look around, but focuses on the radio, fiddling with stations until he settles on something familiar, an old tune by The Cure coming through the speakers that Richie remembers half the words to. Richie feels Eddie’s gaze fall on him, watching him as he drums his thumbs on the steering wheel and hums to the tune of the song that comes back to him the more he listens. 

It feels like going back in time, like he might look over and see Eddie’s feet up on the dash in high top sneakers, wearing those too small red shorts and his tube socks hiked up almost to his knees, but the car isn’t a Mercury Cougar and Eddie’s face has more lines than freckles, but the more he looks at him, the more Richie remembers. 

Richie slows the car to a stop on the side of the road when they get to the bridge, putting the car in park. He doesn’t look over at Eddie, but he can feel his eyes on him, a questioning weight to his gaze that Richie doesn’t care to answer yet. He swings his door open and climbs out of the car, slamming the door shut as Eddie scrambles out of his seatbelt and follows him towards the bridge. 

Richie doesn’t need to scan the railing to find what he’s looking for, knows the exact number of steps it takes to get there. He takes out his pocket knife, revealing the blade as he moves to kneel down, his knees feeling creakier than the last time he did this. 

Eddie steps behind him, casting a shadow before he shifts to the side and comes to kneel beside him, leaning against him with his hand clasped on his shoulder. Richie works slow, his carving as careful and precise as anything Eddie has done in his life, clearing away the erosion of time and weather, making the_ R _ look freshly carved, then moving onto the _ \+ _ , leaving the _ E _ for last, feeling Eddie’s fingers in his hair, stroking absently or maybe deliberately, until he finishes, blowing away the last of the shavings. 

Richie folds his knife and tucks it back into his pocket, catching Eddie as he leans closer, resting his chin on his shoulder. “When did you first carve this?” he asks, making Richie’s gut twist as the butterflies begin to flutter. “I am starting to remember some things, but I haven’t put all the pieces together yet. I know you were something more to me than a friend. That hit me the first time I saw you again. So when was it? Do you remember?” 

Richie swallows, inhaling deep and exhaling slow. “The summer we dealt with It the first time. I think it was after you broke your arm and your mom forbade you from ever seeing us again. She called us all a bunch of monsters. Which, pot meet kettle, Mrs. Kaspbrak.” Richie pauses, laughing as Eddie chokes on a giggle; Richie feels the splatter of a tear on his neck. 

“Anyway, I hadn’t seen you in about a week, I hadn’t seen any of the Losers, spent most of my time in the arcade until something happened that I’d rather forget. And no, I won’t talk about that now, don’t give me that look, there is only so much spilling my guts I can do before I start to feel physically ill and then I will really upchuck my guts.”

Eddie squeezes his shoulder, but doesn’t interrupt, waiting for Richie to continue. 

“I came out here after that, not sure why, but I couldn’t stop thinking about what happened and how it wouldn’t have happened if you hadn’t broken your stupid arm because then you’d be with me and something clicked in my head.” Richie sucks in a breath, drawing back the tremble of a sob that lodges itself in his throat. “It all seems pretty stupid now. Like here I was, skinny nothing, scared shitless of being murdered because I liked guys, out on this bridge carving my deepest darkest secret into the railing in broad daylight. It wasn’t at all rational, but what is rational about being in love with your best friend, you know?” 

“Richie, god I—” Eddie starts, but stops when Richie moves; he can’t be touching him now, shrugging him off as he gets to his feet, walking back into the old wood of the kissing bridge. Eddie follows him, but pauses, standing in front of him with his arms down at his sides—he doesn’t move closer, like he knows on instinct that he’ll spook Richie if he takes another step, and send him running away like a fucking coward. 

“I don’t want you to think you have to say anything back—and, fuck, please don’t think you _ owe _me anything because you don’t and you never will. I made my own choices. I decided that I’d rather live in a world with you in it somewhere, than know you existed and that you were gone forever.” Richie takes a step back, running a shaking hand through his hair. “I know you’re fucking married and I am not asking you to run away with what amounts to a very familar stranger, but I just had to—I needed to make sure you knew. That’s all.” 

“Richie,” Eddie says, taking a step forward now; Richie tries to plant his feet, keep himself in place as Eddie crosses from pavement to wood. “I’m divorcing my wife.” 

“No, Eddie, please I know it’s been a lot, but—”

Eddie makes his way in front of him, reaching up to cover Richie’s mouth with his hand, holding his palm there, pressing down as Eddie making a _ shh- _ing sound. 

“You don’t get to talk anymore, just listen to me for once in your life, dickface.” Richie can’t help but smile against Eddie’s palm, his grin pinching in the apples of his cheeks. “I’ve been thinking about leaving Myra for years, but have been too scared to do it for reasons I never understood. But I get it now and I’m braver now.” Eddie removes his hand from Richie’s mouth, grabbing the edges of his hoodie, tugging Richie closer. “I can make my own choices, too. And besides—” 

Richie is propelled down by a strong yank to his hoodie as Eddie pushes up on the balls of his feet, pressing their mouths together; Eddie’s hands are warm when they slide up to his neck, palms coming to cup around his jaw, holding his face as he kisses him, firm and resolute, before dropping his heels back down. “It’s not like I can find just anyone who will fuck my corpse back to life, you know?” 

Richie falls apart, shaking as he wraps his arms around Eddie, and burying his face against his neck, laughing until his lungs give out, clinging to Eddie like he might never let him go.

He doesn’t plan on it any time soon, at least. 


End file.
